


liminal secrets

by Ceryna



Series: hold me in your heart (or, the adventures of Sakusa Kiyoomi as told through second person) [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Handholding, M/M, POV Second Person, POV: you are Sakusa Kiyoomi and you cannot stop thinking about Miya Atsumu, lots of feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:00:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25773220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceryna/pseuds/Ceryna
Summary: You are afraid of wanting. You are afraid of just how much you want those liminal spaces to be filled. You want the gaps between your fingers to be filled byhim...You want to touch him, hold him.Perhaps even more than that, you want him to touchyou.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Series: hold me in your heart (or, the adventures of Sakusa Kiyoomi as told through second person) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1869682
Comments: 14
Kudos: 85





	liminal secrets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yorus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yorus/gifts).



> impromptu bday gift for lee. 
> 
> hey. hey lee. i love u. 
> 
> here is teh handholding.
> 
> bONK

  
You stare at your fingers.

You've been staring for the past five minutes, perhaps the past five hours. You have analyzed each line of your palms, each curve of your knuckles, skin pulled taut around the joints as you curl your fingers in.

Your nails are short. You just trimmed them. Careful, precise snips with your nail scissors, followed by efficient and thorough filing.

As you hold your hand up to the sunlight streaming in through your window, a sigh escapes you. Your fingers are splayed against the light, reaching through it to block the glare — but still it burns, scalding the surface of your palms, threading through the gaps between your fingers.

The gaps... you've spent most of your time analyzing those. They're a part of you, one that you've been conscious of for as long as you remember. You have kept those spaces clean. Untouched. But that doesn't mean you haven't wanted anyone to touch them.

In all those years, you have learned to articulate your boundaries. You have been strict, bitterly so, because you are afraid.

You are afraid of wanting. You are afraid of just _how much_ you want those liminal spaces to be filled. You want the gaps between your fingers to be filled by _him..._ You want to touch him, hold him.

Perhaps even more than that, you want him to touch _you._

You want to be touched, held, _loved._ But you're afraid of that too.

Rightfully so, you assure yourself.

So you still put on your mask, tie your shoes, hide your hands in your pockets as you slink out of your apartment as you start the journey to meet him.

# ***

Normally you would drive.

It's faster, and you trust the interior of your car to not eat you alive with unknown bacteria. But parking is always a problem in the city, and with where he asked to meet you, parking is impossible. So you resign yourself to riding the bus.

You hold your IC card up to the scanner, cautious to not touch it, and clamber over to an empty row, slouching into the seat. You're tall enough to get some odd looks, but you ignore them. Your earbuds are in. They play back a song you do not hear over the _thud-thud_ of your pulse, a melody you do not recognize. Instead, your eyes are drawn to the imprints the backs of your knuckles make in the inside of your pockets, rippling the fabric on top.

A few more minutes pass. They drag on, slowly, the final grains of sand flittering down to the bottom of an hourglass. But you step off the bus, soles of your shoes skidding on the pavement as you see him.

As predicted, he's not alone. _Of course._ You sigh, lungs aching under the weight of it.

Fans really can't get enough of Miya Atsumu. They idolize him on and off the court, gush over his sponsored advertisements, hound him on social media.

They don't know him like you do. You, who have braved years on the court to stand beside him, spike his tosses — _you,_ who have risen to his taunts and snapped back with sharp gazes and even sharper words. You, who know precisely how those sponsorships have used his name and face for fame — to have only one fraction of yourself broadcast to the world... and to not be seen as human beyond it.

You know enough for your feet to move, knees springing into a run. It doesn't take you long to reach him. You have had years of practice weaving through crowds, having watched how they flow from your corners of relative safety. And when you arrive at his side, he blinks dandelion eyes up at you. Surprise is woven into the arch of one eyebrow.

"Yer late."

"It's not like you to be early," you retort in a harsh whisper. And, before you can stop yourself, you tear your hand from your pocket and wrap it around his.

Running away would make even more of a scene, so you walk fast. Long, brisk strides take you away from the square — but you aren't really watching where you're going.

Once again, you are no longer seeing — you are _feeling._ Callused fingertips close tightly around the backs of your hands, filling the gaps between your fingers as a wide, warm, bronze palm molds into the bony ivory of your own.

"Omi-Omi."

You slow your pace to a halt, sneakers scraping against each other. You have heard your name from his mouth, but not like this — never quite like this.

"I know I invited ya out," he drawls, holding up their still-joined hands with a smile clinging to his lips, "but ya can take me wherever ya want."

That's enough to give you pause. You _want._ You want so many terrifying and wonderful things you're not entirely sure where to begin. But you turn your wrist, the one that's pressed to Atsumu's, rotate until the back of his hand faces you.

And you lift it. Slowly, shakily, until you can tilt your head down a centimeter and brush a kiss to it.

It's not perfect. The fabric of your mask itches against your lips, and you're well aware the tips of your ears burn crimson.

But, as Atsumu's face blooms sakura pink, lips parting in what you hope is awe — you think you'd like to be imperfect together.

"I know a place," you whisper.

It's a secret, just like the smile you keep tucked behind your mask.

But it's one you think you're ready to share.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story (^^)
> 
> comments help fuel my writing! i'd love to know your favorite line, what you liked about the story, or if you'd like to see more second person fic from me! ^^ 
> 
> I'm on Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/Ceryna_writes)!


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